


Tarnished Slate

by LibbyBcnofne



Category: Naruto
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Assisted Suicide, Closure, Hurt/Comfort, Language, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Suicidal Thoughts, past relationship, vauge descriptions of autopsy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:00:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29939997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LibbyBcnofne/pseuds/LibbyBcnofne
Summary: "...So the only thing we can do now, is to exchange our cups as comrades.”Due to the mysterious circumstances surrounding the Shodai Hokage's death, all witnesses to this scene could never have known this was, in fact, the second time Senju Hashirama and Uchiha Madara had this conversation.Or: the morbid drinking party we never got.
Relationships: Senju Hashirama/Uchiha Madara
Comments: 10
Kudos: 26





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Whelp, i wrote most of this on the notes app during my bus commute. So, while i did try and edit it at home, i always miss a thing or twelve, so if you find mistakes i hope you are at least entertained xP

Madara sensed the thin ray of familiar chakra in the way a falcon can capture a faint, thread-whiff of rabbit’s blood miles away, regardless of wind nor altitude, distance nor time. He squashed the involuntary excitement as soon as he felt it. This was going to be a difficult situation to handle, and although he knew exactly what he was going to do with this new information, Madara needed to be excruciatingly cautious. He had been cohabitating with the tricky physical manifestation of his will for some years now, and learned the only way to deceive Black Zetsu was to just barely fall short of deceiving himself. And even though Madara once considered himself to be an expert in self-deception, he found it was more difficult in practice when it came to handling the pesky inkblot.

It was not as if Madara was _afraid_ of Black Zetsu. Zetsu wouldn’t hurt him. _Couldn’t_ , rather- he stressed relentlessly how much he needed Madara for the Moon-Eye plan, an end they both seemed entirely invested in completing.

It was simply that Madara was afraid of Black Zetsu; he loathed the twisted conversations leading to nowhere that would certainly ensue whenever he found Madara doing something he didn’t totally agree with; he dreaded the possibility of watching the tormenting images of his deceased family he had failed in life... who he would continue to fail in their afterlives, if he didn’t cooperate with Zetsu.

His intended “plan” never really could become as such, for the very action of planning would betray his intentions; but whatever it was, it was put into motion first by keeping his mind clear. Under no circumstances could he betray how his brain was turning- he could only pretend as if his actions were inadvertent and random, only appearing convenient after he was out of the cave and it was too late. He didn’t think about the sickening cesspool of chakra twisting into itself in the east- clearly, a sign of the gathering shinobi armies preparing for yet another battle in this war. He didn’t dwell on the single thread of chakra his senses picked out- almost automatically with trained precision- and how it was probably a day’s journey away. He didn’t need to focus on these things because he could feel them and understand without any internal dialogue. And that was the key.

What Madara _did_ do was carry the crate containing his entire supply of sake and started trudging down crude steps to go to the lower level of the cave, because spring was leaking into summer and the heat would make the sake go bad quicker, which makes this a perfectly practical measure of preparation. The crate should last him a little over a year- it was important. Madara also mentally told himself, _Fuck it, I know these steps, I don’t need a light_ , as he descended further from the illumination of the upper level. And finally, Madara certainly “accidentally” extended his foot half a step too far, his heel just catching on the next stair, tipping his balance, sending the crate, several flying sake bottles, and himself, shamefully tumbling down the second half of the staircase. Broken clay, glass, and wood scattered around him. After staring into the darkness and suppressing his attention to the smarts on his back, Madara finally moved.

He did not crack a smile at how perfectly that went. Not even in his mind.

Madara instead fumbled around him, managing to find the one bottle of sake that hadn’t shattered into oblivion. He quickly quaffed it all in nine or ten burning sips, cracked the bottle over his own head when he was finished and fell unconscious.

When Madara awoke, his vision was still recovering, ironically, but his hearing was working fine. Currently, sinister _tsks_ rattled hollow and disdainfully throughout the cave, with walls which threw the sounds to a percussive cacophony.

“I suppose the mighty must fall sometimes,” Wicked Tongue smirked. His tone was kind, but the voice itself was hostile by nature.

“Shut up. Not in the mood...” Madara groaned, turning from his back to his side, his head resolutely pounding in his skull. It was possible he rolled more solidly onto a clay shard, if the sudden stabbing sensations in his ribs were anything to go by, but he refused to readjust to a more comfortable position.

“Were you this drunk when this happened?” Black Zetsu chided, voice curling.

“I was drunk _after_ it happened," Madara corrected. "My day wasn’t getting any better at that rate.”

The ink-like creature slithered to the side so it was directly facing Madara. “Not for a lack of trying,” it purred, grinning.

When Madara remained silent, Zetsu chimed, accusingly, “Did you have to hit your head like that? You already concern me.”

“Like I said: my day wasn’t getting any better.” Madara spat. He turned to his other side, hoping Black Zetsu would leave him be, and _finally_ relieving the pinching pain from his ribs. Rather, he exchanged it for the dull ache of his weight on his shoulder. It was possible he fell on it when he tumbled down the stairs…

Of course, Zetsu could never take a hint. He slunk to Madara’s other side patiently. “So what will you do about it?”

Rolling his eyes, Madara answered, “I have considered quitting...”

Black Zetsu shook his head in disapproval. “You know that won’t work for you. You won’t last a month here like this if you don’t have it. You are already rapidly losing your faculties over your poor, feeble mind. How could you expect to live the subsequent years underground without your precious sake, when you have no comprehension of how long it would take?”

Madara met one eye with Black Zetsu, who was still grinning with his unkind, steel-cut smile. “Perhaps you have a point,” Madara grumbled. “It is going to be a long time down here.”

“Conceivably, this may be a perfect opportunity for you to indulge yourself, before we truly hasten our undertakings. I suggest you travel to a nearby settlement and replenish your stores. Get some sun and fresh air in the meantime, and when you come back, you will be better prepared for the real work to begin.”

Against the better judgement for his raging hangover, Madara sat bolt upright and snarled. “Absolutely not. I’m not going into that village again. It was humiliating. Everyone kept staring at me because of you- _even with the henge_.”

Zetsu’s smile grew even larger, which previously seemed impossible. “And I certainly wouldn’t want to affect your frail, little mind. After all, you are to become a god someday, and it shall be frail and little no longer. No, I plan on remaining here. There are important matters to our plan which I must attend to, and they shall be best carried out under the light of the full moon.”

Madara raised an eyebrow. “What are you up to?”

Zetsu backed away from Madara half a pace and chucked menacingly. It was an ugly, grating sound. “Nothing that isn’t within the best interests of our plan. All I need is your faith on this.”

And so, after Madara had taken off at full speed for a few hours, he at last dared to reflect… 

The chakra he detected which he understood so familiarly, he knew _exactly_ how it changed in every circumstance-

Something was terribly wrong with Hashirama.

" _You look pretty depressed, Hashirama. Can’t perk back up this time, eh?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m kinda new to this, so if you think there are any tags i need to include or any other AO3 etiquette things i should know, please don’t hesitate to let me know.


	2. The Event

Hashirama was defeated.

Surrounded by stinking carnage, misshapen rocks, the twisted roots of his own mokuton, and ravenous flames, he tried and failed to stagger to his feet, collapsing in a heap on his back. Every comrade down to the last shinobi had already perished in the battle that had unfolded in just the past hour or so, and judging from his injuries, Hashirama would soon join them amongst the war casualties.

It appears the enemy shinobi were somehow aware of Hashirama’s spontaneous, last-minute decision to join the squad in the reconnaissance mission, which was to be completed before the battle was expected to commence. 

After running all night, with the rest of the Konoha force diminished to nothing in the distance, the five-man team was ambushed by over two hundred shinobi- ninja from Takigakure and Iwagakure, who were unexpectedly joining forces for this battle- possibly to maximize their chances against Hashirama. It would certainly have been excessive if the enemy sent such a force without knowing the identities of the five Leaf Shinobi.

There was an Iwa nin, a boy no older than fifteen, hanging limp from a sharp branch as wide as Hashirama’s thigh, which impaled him through his chest. Hashirama could only stare at him now, and bleakly recalled the deciding moment where he cast his jutsu against the young shinobi. When Hashirama first noticed the boy, he was impressed with his obvious talent with earth-style nature release. However, the moment when the boy had prompted rocks to crush one of Hashirama’s remaining comrades, he was forced to act swiftly.

(The boy can’t have suffered long- with luck, he may have died immediately.)

_It’s for Konohagakure, for maintaining its peace._

The words sounded dull in his own mind’s voice; his own hypocrisy made Hashirama feel sick...

…because _this_ was supposed to stop. Because he’s been repeating the words as if it were a mantra since-

Never mind. Nothing can change the past. Besides, his comrade died within the next two minutes of the battle. He couldn’t even justify killing the boy by saving a life…

In that moment, he felt a familiar feeling. The same lurking feeling which has been beckoning him since- _stop_.

Hopelessness. Emptiness. Failure. He can focus on this feeling instead of why it’s there.

Hashirama has been giving up little by little in all the years following _that_ loss. It was an excruciatingly slow death. He paid a price he never wanted to give, for the peace of a village comprised of clans that have always ever known war. 

It took him weathering the first years of the First Shinobi War to realize the fight for peace was always a losing battle, for shinobi clans and shinobi villages alike. In the end, this war would happen regardless of what Hashirama gave up for Konohagakure’s peace, and he learned he should never have traded something so precious for something inaccessible… complete and total peace was an element only found in fables and folklore. But he did make that trade, only to realize the peace he attained from it was a perverted version of what he envisioned.

In real time, Hashirama vacantly watched the pair of feet trudge their way towards his broken body covered in broken armor. He rolled from his back to his side, groaning at the pain blooming through his gut and hip, and propped himself up on his elbow. Hashirama probably looked a little silly, but nothing ever stopped him from appearing so before; thus, imminent death will not stop him either. The approaching shinobi was going to finish him off, but he almost wondered as to the point. There was nothing that would prevent his death now- even if someone were to immediately administer medical treatment, Hashirama had at least three fatal wounds which would take longer to fix than it would for him to die from them.

He won’t give the executioner a fight. And that was alright.

Hashirama collapsed on his elbow and lay on his side when the feet finally stopped mere paces away. His thoughts were coming forward in lazy tendrils; Hashirama slowly bemoaned the fact he wouldn’t pull himself in a more upright position, considering he was likely about to be beheaded.

To die like this… it would be undignified, but then again, the prospect of sitting up seemed too _exhausting_.

Perhaps losing his head on his back would be appropriate enough for him. He realized he _should_ care about dying with dignity, but he still emptily accepted that he just _didn’t_. At this point, he didn’t care about details, he just wanted to die.

“Senju Hashirama,” a deep voice addressed him, firmly.

Hashirama smiled, gurgling blood from of his mouth in response.

“We are here for your head. Now, you must prepare to die.”

Hashirama made eye contact with the shinobi at the declaration. He was a young man from Takigakure, in his twenties, perhaps- with cruel, green eyes like an assassin and black hair mostly obscured by a dark hood. He was familiar… and then he was not. After appraising his executioner, Hashirama smiled so broadly his eyes crinkled closed, and he released the blood in his throat out in a scarlet spray off to his side.

“Well, it’s about damn time. I’ve been waiting for you,” Hashirama answered, glibly.

The enemy shinobi’s eyes betrayed just a flash of confusion before he gave a jerked nod and unsheathed the katana at his side. Hashirama rolled onto his back and smiled at the sky with his arms and legs outstretched, giggling like a madman.

“Madara… I am going to die now. I will see you again on the other side.” 

It was the most at peace he had felt in years; it was like tipping a balance to a perfect level after ignoring the imbalance for so long.

A shout that was almost a scream... and then Hashirama just saw the shinobi before him lurch his head to his right in surprise. A paper bomb went off just short of two paces away from them both, forcing the shinobi to leap back. Hashirama weakly raised his arm to shield his face from the blast, when he was yanked up by the ties of his breastplate and dragged away from the flames, armor making scraping sounds on the rock.

“ _You absolute fool_!” a strong voice roared.

Hashirama felt his breath catch. He’d know that voice anywhere, but it just can’t be...

_Did I somehow learn how to summon ghosts?_

Before Hashirama could think too hard about the possibility of accidentally signing a contract with a Shinigami, he blinked and looked up at the person who was so _rudely_ dragging him on the ground. And sure enough, _Madara was there_. He unceremoniously flung Hashirama behind him as he spun his kusarigama around them both by the chain, slicing through the eight shinobi who came too close. About ten others were already rushing towards him before he quickly balanced the kama above his elbows, glove-clad hands flying into a blur before releasing a flame with a blast so strong, it made his waist-length, dark hair billow behind him. The flames briefly obscured the scene of the battlefield from view, consuming everything within its reach- living and dead shinobi, the mokuton roots, everything... before Madara frantically turned around and faced Hashirama.

“Time to go,” Madara commanded, grabbing a speechless Hashirama by the elbow. “I didn’t come here to clean up your mess.” He spared a glance behind them. “I hope none of your comrades were still in there.”

Leaving no time for Hashirama to answer, Madara took off in a sprint, dragging Hashirama behind him by the arm. Unfortunately, Hashirama was too weak for this; he stumbled within the first three paces made to escape the clearing.

“Really, Hashirama. You must be kidding me. You let yourself get _this_ injured?” Madara huffed.

“Madara, I’m so sorry,” Hashirama cried out. “So long as I’m still alive and your soul can hear me, I’m so-”

Snarling, Madara answered, “We don’t have time for this! Get on your feet!”

“I’m sorry, I can’t run, and you can’t be real,” Hashirama sobbed in punctuated breaths, tears flowing freely. “Look at me! I’m done for anyway!”

“Hashirama… I’m here,” Madara insisted, bending down a little to meet Hashirama’s gaze with wide eyes, steadying him by the shoulders with his death-grip, and continuing, “This is real. We’re both alive, now snap out of it!” And, after removing one glove with his teeth, he extended his hand towards Hashirama. Tentatively, he took the hand with his trembling own, feeling the warmth of life beneath his fingertips. Madara pulled him forward, closer, before quickly cutting the straps to Hashirama’s armor with a kunai and letting it all crash onto the rocks. “It’ll just slow me down,” he explained and with that, Madara crouched and scooped Hashirama into his arms by the knees and back. The pair sped off into the safety of the canyon past the scarred earth of the battle, before the flames would die down and expose their escape.

Not even a few yards into the mad sprint, Hashirama started pleading, “Leave me here! You don’t understand, this is pointless- I won’t survive!”

“Like hell you won’t!”

“There’s no time, just kill me here and run. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” Hashirama couldn’t stop himself from weeping.

“What-? No! I would’ve killed you back there if I wanted that, you imbecile! Who do you take me for?” Madara challenged, his eyes glittering. Hashirama looked closer, something looked off there, but Madara’s hair was constantly obscuring them as he ran.

“Please, Madara. I’m so sorry… I promise it wasn’t worth it,” Hashirama wept, brokenly. At this point he could only hope Madara understood what he was even talking about. “I love you!... I missed you so… I want to tell you one last time. Please just leave me here, I can’t let you do this!”

While he was distracted in his confessions, Madara stopped, set Hashirama down so he could stand, and _slapped_ him so hard across the face, Hashirama had to count to five before the stars danced out of his vision. Although this got Hashirama to shut up, he still wept as if he was trying to establish a new Land of Waterfalls. Madara closed his eyes and sighed as noisily as possible, before gracelessly hoisting Hashirama back into his arms. All the while, Hashirama kept up his tearful tirade, even when Madara started running again. A couple minutes transpired like this, until Madara interrupted Hashirama’s bawling and rumbled, “Be quiet. None of that matters now. Just… collect yourself. You need to start healing yourself immediately.”

Instead of taking any action on his suggestion, Hashirama vacantly stared into the small space between their chests. He couldn’t tell right away but eventually Hashirama realized he was twisting Madara’s shirt in his hands, trying to pull them both closer together. In that moment he was painfully conscious of how he didn’t deserve this… whatever this was, happening right now. He choked out another bloody sob.

“You promise you’re real? You won’t disappear and leave me alone?” Hashirama asked in a shaking voice. It would be a miracle if Madara heard him, even as he resumed his soft crying into the shirt he clutched like it was the only connection he had to the living. 

He couldn’t bring himself to say anything more while he was carried away from the battlefield; he could only stare at the face of the man he was sure he put into the ground all those years ago. Initially, Hashirama was certain he had died, and Madara was simply the soul carrying him to the next life. Upon closer inspection, he could see Madara wasn’t the same as he remembered him, but _older,_ with deeper lines loping under his eyes, and new wrinkles around his lips and creasing his forehead. There were several more strands of grey tangled in his blue, trailing hair than Hashirama had recalled.

(And how he still remembered there were twenty-three last he checked, he did not know.)

Curiously- now that he could get a better look from this perspective- one of his eyes was the same onyx hue he remembered, while the other was clouded, blind… dead. 

It was dawning on Hashirama now that he himself was still alive, and that Madara was also alive… furthermore, he _has been_ alive, after all the time he had spent thinking he had murdered the closest person to his soul.

While Hashirama analyzed his friend between blinking out tears, Madara never once looked down to meet his eyes.

After roughly ten minutes of running like that, Madara slowed down to a jog and eventually to a walk, straying from the direction the ravine was taking them only to seclude them both into a cave hidden in the canyon’s depths. Jagged stalactites poked down from the top of its entrance, forcing Madara to duck. An errant stone sticking out of the ground caused him to trip, and even though he regained his balance before he could actually fall, Hashirama gave a fractured cry as the disruption caused pain to course through every nerve. The cavern itself was a moderate size- it could perhaps accommodate twenty people in an emergency situation. There were more menacing stalactites, piled arbitrarily one in front of another as if competing for the same space, some almost reaching the floor of the cave.

“I’ve seen you do some stupid shit before, but I have to admit you’ve outdone yourself with this one,” Madara scoffed. Water dripped into a puddle deep within the cave’s recesses, integrating into a small pond somewhere, but besides that, the echoes of Madara’s voice were the only sounds to be heard. “How much will you hurt yourself before you just _stop?_ Do you have to reach your limit for that?” In contrast to his brash tone, he lowered Hashirama gently in a seated position with his legs stretched out, his back resting against a rock, then quickly rose to his feet again and took three steps back. Hashirama searched the other shinobi’s face but wasn’t sure of what he found. Disappointment? Resentment? Disgust? He continued to stare dumbly as Madara stood above him, crossing his arms.

“Well, go on,” he said, gesturing flippantly with his hand before crossing his arms again. “Once I see you’re good, I am out of here.”

Hashirama had to refrain from laughing, it really doesn’t do anything good for his lungs right now. “Where do you suggest I ‘go on’ to?” he asked between labored breaths.

“Well, you better start healing yourself unless you want to ‘go on’ to the pure lands,” Madara growled, as if he making a threat. “I thought you were getting started when I asked you to. The hell is the matter with you?”

This was even better- this time, Hashirama couldn’t withhold the powerful guffaws bubbling from his belly through punctured lungs. It resulted in a spray of blood. A few drops landed on Madara’s face, which made him flinch, encouraging Hashirama to laugh even harder as he clutched his torso and his belly with both arms to keep it all from coming apart. During Hashirama’s hysterics, Madara kept his stare, not breaking it even to wipe the offending crimson flecks from his face, his expression evolving to one of complete perplexity. Hashirama laughed so hard, an entrail started to slip into the open from his gut wound, and for some reason that made Madara wince. 

Madara almost looked _frightened._

It was all just _hilarious_.

“Madara...” Hashirama paused to wheeze, “…the pure lands… hah… that’s exactly where I am going.”

“I’m not in the mood for your jokes today, Hashirama. You need to quit stalling, otherwise you _will_ die.” His tone was dismissive, but the way his voice cracked when he said his name suggested otherwise. Dropping his voice to something softer, almost affectionate, Madara said, “Come now, I’ve seen you handle much worse than this. I know this is nothing for you to fix.”

With a shake of his head, Hashirama replied, “I can’t.”

Madara narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean you can’t?” He slowly stepped forward, closer to Hashirama, kneeling in front of him, slightly to his right.

Hashirama shook his head. “Here... I will show you.” Hashirama started to pull his shirt over his head, but the task became too difficult for his injuries and he was stuck halfway as the pain locked his body, refusing to extend his muscles any further to complete the task. He grunted, “Help me...please?”

He could imagine Madara rolling his eyes, but soon felt familiar, thin fingers take the hem of his shirt, slowly peeling it from his body. With the shirt off, Hashirama could see Madara again, but his gaze was now fixated on Hashirama’s bare chest in unveiled horror.

Yes… of course there was the gore; the streaming blood, exposed muscle and a snapped rib bone, the stab-wound in his side which still hadn’t stopped its torrential bleeding, and organs threatening to spill out from the gash across Hashirama’s abdomen. But that was already known. 

The new information Madara was probably processing were the many older, anomalous marks on Hashirama’s skin. A single glance would leave one to believe the darker patches on Hashirama’s skin were just rashes, maybe callouses. However, if one could look closer- which Madara was certainly doing now with his sharingan active- one could see the color was greyer and less like Hashirama’s brown skin. A sharingan user would be able to tell the flesh was dead; that is, if it could even be called flesh at all. There were ridges which appeared in a cracked pattern. If one could look closer, they might say the spots looked more like tree’s bark.

Madara gave a sharp inhale, tentatively reaching with his hand and lightly touching one of the marks on Hashirama’s right pectoral with his finger, as if he couldn’t believe it was even there. “What is the meaning of this?” he grit out slowly in a near whisper, as if every syllable was cutting into his own skin.

“Like I said, I can’t-” Hashirama paused to give a bloody cough to unclog his lungs a little before continuing. “Every time I try to heal, the flesh... it grows back like this… as the flesh of a tree. If I heal these wounds, I’ll impale myself.” Hashirama took a breath that was too deep and shuddered in pain. But then he huffed a laugh which was even more painful. Green curls of chakra were willed around his hand, which he brought to the stab wound near his hip. What felt like an actual branch filled the space. It was agonizing. After regaining control over his involuntary cry of pain, he nonchalantly shrugged, “Come to think of it, it’s better this way. Perhaps it might help me reach my end faster...”

Seizing Hashirama’s wrist suddenly to stop the perverse healing before he could try it on his perforated lungs, Madara glowered and shook his head fiercely. “Stop that!” He jerked his head to look behind him, looked around, then met Hashirama’s eyes again. There were tears… he was clearly doing everything he could to will them away, but they were there all the same. Although one eye was lifeless, both were filled with raw emotions Hashirama felt he had no right to scrutinize. It made him feel sad; he could almost sense Madara’s brilliant mind at work, but from what he could see of the man before him, it was more like his brain was processing too much all at oncee, shorting out and leaving him more lost. He spoke, almost to himself while looking away, “This shouldn’t be happening to you…in your own right, you are like a god…” and then suddenly, he snapped his head to look Hashirama in the eye, almost accusingly, and angrily cried, “Why is this happening?!”

Hashirama sat back, putting more of his body weight upon the stone supporting him, and blinked slowly at Madara, breathed slowly to quell the cough forming in his chest. He gave Madara a small smile. “Don’t worry about it. Honestly, I’m not sure. I guess I should have told Tobirama… I just couldn’t bring myself to trouble him like that. He’s the most likely person to figure it all out,” answered Hashirama, trying to keep his voice jovial.

“You never told him? Why didn’t you _ask_? How long has this been-? No- never mind, it doesn’t matter now.” Madara paused, and the slight hysteria Hashirama thought he heard in his voice had been skillfully erased from his present measured tone. “There’s always another way. Your base- where did your shinobi set their camp?”

Hashirama shook his head. “Too far. We left last night. We didn’t stop until... we were stopped.”

“What about your brother? Could he get here now?”

“No... He’s the Hokage now, so he’s watching after the village. Even if he knew about this… situation...” Hashirama blinked harshly when his vision flickered for the first time in this morbid experience. “...he can’t get here in time.”

“Hey… hey, stay with me. Are you alright?” Madara fussed, sweeping his hand behind Hashirama’s head. Relishing in the contact, Hashirama nodded when his vision returned. 

Hashirama couldn’t help himself any longer; maybe Madara still wanted to play dumb, but Hashirama already accepted his fate. He reached out for Madara’s face, but his fear of rejection coupled with his deep self-loathing forced his right hand to rest on Madara’s shoulder at the last moment, squeezing the muscle below his fingers. He locked his gaze with Madara’s, feeling moisture melting away from his eyes and down his face, mourning the fact he would have to say goodbye again to the man he cherishes more than his own life.

Madara didn’t do anything to remove the offending hand. Instead, he reached for the hand with his own, considering it, before lifting it the rest of the way to his face, allowing Hashirama’s fingers to stretch and curl against the soft skin of his cheek, at some point closing his eyes and squeezing them shut at one point before allowing them to see again. He used his other hand to brush away strands of hair plastered to Hashirama’s glistening face. 

“Is it a matter of chakra? I...” Madara pointed his gaze towards knotted scars on Hashirama’s chest, hesitating, then decisively continued, “I don’t have as much on hand these days, but I can spare maybe enough for you to buy yourself some time… then I can take you to your base.”

“It’s not about chakra...if I use your chakra, nothing will change. I am just malfunctioning. Besides, even if _you_ could heal me, you wouldn’t be able to save me… There’s too much damage, and not enough time to fix it.” At the end of his explanation, Hashirama fell into an involuntary coughing fit, having no choice but to clear the blood filling his lungs and threatening to drown him.

With the spray of blood from the choked coughs, Madara leaned forward and put an arm around his shoulders, grounding him as he shook. Whenever Hashirama thought he had regained control over his lungs, a traitorous tickle would threaten his precarious balance and he would fall into a fit again. It was a moment before he could regain his composure, but he noticed afterward that at some point Madara had started rubbing his back in large circles. It was all soothing… and at the same time it was too much…

Hashirama rasped, “So… it’s really you?”

More than half of the affection in Madara’s face evaporated. “As I’ve been trying to tell you. I’d wish you would listen to me better.”

“I know, I know… I wish I had, too. I always should have…” Hashirama trailed off.

“No,” Madara warned, “Don’t you _dare_ try and apologize again. You are no good at them, and besides, I don’t want that from you.”

“I can’t help it,” Hashirama cried, tears flowing anew. “I’ve kept them all pent up for so long, they just slip out as soon as I have the chance. And I thought I would have more time with you… I imagined our next meeting could only be in the pure lands, so I would’ve had all the time in the universe to tell you anything! …Don’t get me wrong, I am overjoyed to see you are alive, I just curse the reality where we can’t ever remain together.”

With his arm still caressing his back, Madara squeezed Hashirama’s shoulders in a partial embrace. “Shh, be quiet. Enough of this talk- I am not letting you die. Not like this.” He turned his gaze down and lifted his arm from Hashirama’s shoulders, fiddling with the pockets in his cloak before suddenly straightening up again, his dark eye set with determination, revealing a small storage scroll in his hand. With brisk hand signs and a scowl, he wordlessly unsealed a jar half-full of a red paste, some wire, a clay jug with water, and a large bundle of bandages. After setting the jug on the floor a few steps away and using his katon to blast the vessel until steam billowed from the open top, Madara returned to kneeling beside Hashirama and started to open the jar. “I’m going to patch you up before tell me where your base is,” Madara muttered, eye focused on the jar like he had never opened one before. “Don’t worry, I’m not interested in fighting your shinobi right now. You will probably still be clinging to life when we make it, and then a healer can tend to you.” Madara shifted his gaze from the now open jar to make full eye contact with Hashirama. His voice was actually fond when he says, “Think of your village, your family, your brother- they need you. You can’t go.”

“My village, my family, my brother…” Hashirama chuckled. “They’ve always been more capable without me, and when I die, they will move forward as they always have. Maybe better than ever before. They never needed me, but I’ve always needed you.”

“I don’t think I would ever believe that,” Madara murmured lightly.

Hashirama gave a bloody chuff, but otherwise, he was lost for words.

_I killed you... I felt your heart stop... Tobirama took your body… he buried you…_

_I’m still grieving… sometimes I still feel stuck in the ugliest moments…_

_“Who’s there?”_

_“Tobirama, it’s me! Who else comes here at this hour? Let me in!”_

_“Anija, don’t- just wait a moment. Hold on.”_

_Hashirama hears a metallic clatter on the other side of the door. Tobirama eventually answers the door to his lab by cracking it open._

_“Anija, I wasn’t expecting you today. If it’s about the body, I said I would take care of it.”_

_Hashirama smiles weakly and shoves past Tobirama through the doorway of the lab. Tobirama scrambles behind him, clearly trying to walk ahead of Hashirama. “I know I never said I would drop by, it’s just… I’m feeling a little better now… and I felt compelled to-”_

_“Anija! -”_

_“Tobirama… why is he… here?” Hashirama stands motionless beside the gurney. The white sheet covered everything except the snarl of blue hair. Hashirama grabs the sheet with trembling fingers and lifts it away. Hashirama drops the sheet and covers his mouth to half-stifle a wail._

_“Anija, please, I told-”_

_“What is this?! How dare you?! I don’t give a damn if you have always hated him, how could you ever… ever… dissect-! How could you dissect a person you knew, like he was one of your dead practice animals? What kind of man does this make you?” Hashirama snatches pins sticking into taut skin stretched back. Tiny labels to fly everywhere. Tobirama fists his hands in his hair for a second, but then forces himself to relax. Hashirama lets the flesh curl back to the exposed muscles and tendons and tries to heal it. The skin closes around the autopsy wounds, but they heal wrong._

_“It makes me the more rational of us both! Do you even hear yourself, Anija? You are willfully losing your mind over a corpse… which was why I had to take it from you in the first place!”_

_“I should never have let you take him from me!” Hashirama blasts the same wound three times with healing chakra before the lump marking the original laceration flattens out. There are so many open incisions left…_

_“You had his body on the kitchen table and you were preserving it! What was I supposed to do? Or rather- what were_ you _planning to do? What happens when it starts to stink? What about when it dries up and you cannot recognize who it even was anymore? It is no way for you to move on from this, and you know it!”_

_“So, you defiled his body to help me move on. Is this drivel what you think will excuse your actions?”_

_“I need no excuse; my actions are justified. You just don’t see it… you see it as if it were a living person, but it is nothing but a corpse. A collection of cells which neither expend nor generate energy; muscle, flesh and bone that do not even bleed when I cut into them. Nothing more but an object which can do nothing else but provide information. Information which might prove useful in our developing world!”_

_“I couldn’t care less of the justifications you invented to somehow excuse… this.”_

_“Should I remind you that_ you _are the reason he is a corpse to begin with?”_

_“Oh, and there it is! Somehow, I approved all of this! It is truly a wonder how your brilliant mind works, Tobirama! You can absolve yourself of anything if you put your mind to it- an enviable talent! As long as you get to update your lab notebook and your anija gives you the precedent, then nothing is beneath you, isn’t it?” Hashirama suddenly returns his attention to Madara and frantically tries to lift his eyelid. “If you touched either one of his eyes, I fucking swear…”_

_“Tch. It’s not as if I got anything to update my notebook with. I took a good look- yes, I even looked at his eyes- and all I found was that Uchiha Madara was nothing special. His eyes may have been powerful, but they objectively weren’t even his. Without them, he was quite ordinary.”_

_“Your cruel science means nothing to me. You cut him open and saw him from the inside, and I still see more than you.”_

_“What are you doing, Anija? Where are you going with that?”_

_“I am taking him downstairs. I will heal his every mark, and then seal him in his coffin so you won’t touch him again. You are going to bury him as soon as I finish the healing. Is that understood?”_

_“Fine, if you say so. However, I assumed you would want to inter the body…”_

_“I cannot trust myself to complete any part of this process for him anymore. I failed at every turn. I couldn’t convince the Uchiha to give him his last rites. I gave him to you, only for you to dishonor his remains. If I am responsible for his burial, after all of this, then I will ruin that too. If you have even a shred of respect for the impossible decision I was forced to make, or for my grief, then you will not tell me where you make this grave. I will pick someone to watch you, so I know you didn’t steal his eyes or make any further despicable actions. And make no mistake; the solitary reason why I am entrusting this task to you is the threat of what I will do to you if you refuse.”_

_“Anija, what-”_

_“You don’t get to call me that.” Hashirama glowers at Tobirama. Hashirama decides he wants to hurt Tobirama. “I do not know you. You are no brother of mine. Madara and Izuna were brothers. It is too bad that with all your boasting for your skill the day you struck him down, Izuna will always best you as an otuoto. My brother? Calling me Anija like it means something to you? You are nothing but a crooked scientist who managed to break my heart even further when I thought it couldn’t be done. To hell with you.”_

_Tobirama’s eyes glitter like embers as he watches Hashirama tenderly hoist Madara’s body into his arms. Hashirama even goes as far as telling Madara “It’s okay. I got you now. Let’s go downstairs,” mostly because he knows it would send Tobirama into a conniption. Tobirama remains frozen to the spot, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Hashirama suspects the only reason why Tobirama doesn’t at least try to kill him as he walks out of the lab is because he doesn’t want to be the Hokage’s murderer._

_And that is now the only reason staying Tobirama’s hand._

“Stop it, Hashirama, stay with me!” Hashirama blinked out of his daze when he felt Madara frantically patting his cheek with his hand. When he grunted in response, Madara returned to his work. Blood poured over his fingers as he cleaned the wounds with cloth soaked in hot water, and Hashirama bit his fist to suppress a scream. Despite his efforts, the piteous sounds tumbled through his throat and he writhed in agony. “Hold still,” Madara commanded, suppressing him with a firm hand to his sternum, then continued working when Hashirama stopped squirming. When he figured he had washed the skin enough, Madara reached for the open jar and started to apply the medicinal paste at the edges of his torn flesh around some of the smaller wounds.

But Hashirama regards these actions with confusion. The scene playing before him now is far from his expectations. While this reality of being tenderly cared for by a loved one in his last moments seems obviously superior to dying by the hand of that same loved one, Hashirama needs an answer. “Why are you trying to help me live?”

“Whatever I am or am not doing, you are not just going to die here at the hands of incompetent shinobi,” Madara answered in a dark murmur. He looked so lost, looking everywhere and nowhere; his midnight hair which usually appeared like long, controlled streaks of the darkest charcoal was beginning to better resemble plumes of wild smoke, the strands threatening to float away from his scalp in his frenzy. Madara seemed to be done medicating the wounds (as best as he could, at least, considering they would not stop bleeding) and he reached for the wire and needle. His voice became impossibly lower and quieter than before when he stared resolutely into Hashirama’s eyes and said, “Besides, I never wanted you to die, anyway.” With a curse, he finally had to turn on his sharingan in order to thread the needle he was trying to assemble for at least a minute. It was kept activated when he lowered his hands to start stitching. 

Only, Hashirama knew this wouldn’t do any good. It was prolonging the inevitable. There was no way Madara was ignorant of this, but of course he wouldn’t stop taking action until well after all hope was lost. Hashirama knew him well enough. This would only serve to make Hashirama suffer longer… probably even make _Madara_ suffer longer… and that was unnecessary. Hashirama couldn’t continue being the person that only put his friend through avoidable pain, especially in these last moments he would have with him in this life.

With this thought in mind, Hashirama grabbed Madara’s wrist before he could stick him with the needle. “No,” Hashirama ordered softly in a whisper. “That’s enough. It’s over, Madara. There is nothing left you can do for me.”

He can see Madara’s brow furrow, perhaps in confusion, perhaps in frustration, but the message sinks in slowly as his eyes soften. “No…” His eyebrows turn up in concern and his lips part so slightly to reveal clenched teeth. Hashirama really didn’t want to think about the last time he saw him make this exact face, but he already knew it was when Izuna was struck fatally, in what felt like almost a lifetime ago. It was with visible pain in even his dead eye that Madara released a breath, and Hashirama almost missed the soft enunciation of “No,” from his air. 

Without thinking, Hashirama folded his other hand around Madara’s, feeling grounded by the warmth and life in his palms. “I’m sorry… I tried to warn you. There’s just no way out of this now.”

Madara shifted his balance back so he was squatting on his heels, slightly removed from Hashirama, taking him in his line of sight, before suddenly leaning completely forward, locking Hashsirama in a desperate embrace, softly whispering, “No…no, you don’t deserve this, you did everything for them, fuck, _why are you so stupid?_ You didn’t have to do this!”

The embrace felt like home, and it was everything Hashirama had yearned for just short of five years, but the memory of what he did all that time ago had stiffened him.

Hashirama was too weak to push him away, but he said, “Madara…please…I was wrong, I deserve this,” and Madara backed out of the embrace to give Hashirama a quizzical eye. “I killed you, and now that I will die, I will get what I deserve. What I did to you… it's unforgiveable, and it’s been weighing on my heart for too long. I’m tired, Madara. So please… if you are really you, then just go ahead. There is nothing to stop you from avenging yourself. My death may now be honorable if it’s done by your hand.”

Madara suddenly retracted his arms from around Hashirama and jolted to his feet, actually sputtering, “No- absolutely not. I’m not playing your game this time.”

“There is no game, but if there were, the game is over. You will live, and I will die.” He bit his lip, trying to suck some of the blood on it back into his mouth. “I am sorry I asked, Madara. I thought all this time that you wanted this… but… perhaps I can see…” Hashirama sank to the ground and turned to his side, hugging his legs to himself and he looked away, ashamed.

With a low voice, Hashirama continued, “It’s alright. You don’t have to. Just leave me here, you shouldn’t have to watch this if you don’t want to. I’ll release a chakra flare so the Konoha shinobi can find my body.” He looked over his shoulder to see Madara who appeared to have all but collapsed to his knees at Hashirama’s side, his face like stone. With great effort, he reached over and somehow pried the thin fingers from the medicine jar they were still clutching, interlacing them with his own, and bringing it to his cheek. “It’s alright.” Tears started to form in his eyes, but he forced his emotions down. “It was… so good to see you Madara. I always wished we had more time but… well, this here, right now, is more than anything I could have asked for. So thank you.” At that, he curled into himself a little, finally allowing the tears to fall, his face obscured by the dark veil his long hair created.

The hand held within his own shifted, and for a moment he felt both hands from the other shinobi softly caressing his fingers. Before long one of the hands extracted itself from the grip, and then Hashirama felt his hair being delicately drawn out of his face. Hashirama felt the hand caress upon his face, shifting to absent-mindedly comb through his hair, and for a few moments they shared the thoughtful silence. After a moment a deep sigh was heard. A rustle, then another sigh.

Finally- “Hashirama, I am not leaving you.”

Hashirama turned over his shoulder to face Madara. Most his face was hidden behind a snarl of ink-dark hair, but Hashirama could see him subtly biting the inside of his cheek.

Grabbing for Madara’s hand, he nuzzled his face into the warm skin and kissed it at the knuckles. Hashirama, of course, was still crying, but sobs weren’t driving his breath anymore. “Oh, Madara.”

Madara looked away towards the light at the cave’s mouth, as if he were embarrassed. A squeeze from his hand was barely noticeable, but present. “I’m here.”

Hashirama decided to take a gamble, since it was nearly the end of his life, and he dragged his hand from Madara’s wrist to his elbow, hauling him close enough to catch his lips in a kiss. To his fortune, Madara did not lean away immediately as he half-expected; instead he fell forward, kissing Hashirama back as if expecting him to shatter, but still reaching for Hashirama’s face with his hands almost wildly.

Hashirama broke the kiss for a moment to lament, “You don’t know how much I missed you,” against Madara’s lips. Closing his eyes, he leaned back in to catch them in his own again.

This time, Madara leaned back and looked away.

Hashirama opened his eyes. “Madara I’m serious. I sincerely couldn’t live the same since that day. Every breath I have taken is stolen. Long ago, I decided I would die in this war. The weight of what I’ve done was too great for me to carry.”

Madara quietly huffed, “Does this change your will to live?” gesturing vaguely towards himself.

Looking away and shaking his head, Hashirama said, “It doesn’t change what I did. And then…” Tears started to spill over, making trails on Hashirama’s brown skin. “…I said those horrible things while it happened-”

“Shh, shut up. I already told you, I don’t want your apologies, Hashirama. Don’t spend these moments like that.” Madara finally met Hashirama’s eyes with his own, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. “If you really must know, I will tell you; I do not hold grudges for what happened in our last fight.” He felt Madara squeeze his shoulder with his hand. “The one who called for that deathmatch was me, and I knew a victory against you was unlikely. In that fight, you gave me the chance to defeat death itself.” Madara started to smile crookedly. “That is a lifetime opportunity. And as for your words, they gave me some… perspective.”

“Oh… I do hope not. I would take back those words if I could.” Hashirama covered his eyes dramatically, but he couldn’t stop hearing his own words from the valley. They were so opposed to the principles he preached in public, and so he said the blood-stained words in the audience of a single person. But of course, he couldn’t help his own curiosity, so he followed up with, “What perspective did you gain, exactly?”

Madara gave a short, dry laugh. “Admittedly, your insistence to erase not only me, but also the shred of a legacy I ever had in Konohagakure… that was painful, to say the least. You’re the man who said you loved me… well, perhaps I expected too much from you when you expressed the sentiment. And then again, I always suspected you had no understanding of the word.” Another laugh before Madara continued, “And do you know what worried me even more? That you would stake so much on a failed experiment, including your brother, including your brats. I wondered how you could say that with such certainty. It was like I never knew you. It was such a dark thing I would never have expected to find in your words. But I had to realize- you had a dream, and you were ready to sacrifice anything for it, regardless of the personal cost to you; regardless of the twisted morality of your actions; regardless of the possibility- no, the _certainty_ \- that your dream would ultimately fail. Looking back with that perspective, I can’t do anything else but admire your ambition and resolve. If I am to get anywhere with the scope I have set for my goals, I will need to be prepared to sacrifice anybody or anything- regardless of personal cost, moral principle or anything else.”

When he finished speaking, Hashirama sighed, “Ah. You got all that from what I said? See, this is why you shouldn’t take any lessons from me. And the things I create? The things I do, even to those I love? They’re even worse.”

Madara retorted, “Quit worrying over it. At least in my case I didn’t make it easy for you- it was the only right thing for you to do.”

And then Hashirama replied, “If it was the right thing, then why have I been spending every morning wanting to die for what I did?”

Madara looked down to the ground in the spaces between his fingers at this. “I could never predict it would affect you so... it seemed my death would bring peace to the village, and to you by extension.” He looked into Hashirama’s amber eyes as they filled with tears. With gentle grasps and slow movements, he shifted Hashirama’s body so he was lying perpendicular to him, his shoulders and skull pressed into Madara’s lap. Hashirama took Madara’s hand again and held it to his chest. They remained together like that in the quiet of the cave for a few moments, until Madara cleared his throat and spoke. “I… um… I watched you fight earlier.”

“Oh?” Hashirama wheezed, “You were there? I’m sorry, I didn’t know. How much did you see?”

“I saw enough.” At this, Hashirama swallowed and fixated on the blue veins in Madara’s hand. But Madara didn’t stop there. “I watched you fight with lackluster up until the second your last comrade had fallen. At that point, you had reverted to taijutsu only, and in weak form at that. You were unrecognizable,” he growled, eyes franticly darting everywhere except towards Hashirama, but he was otherwise calm. “For a moment, I thought you had already died, and the last man standing was someone else… but I looked closer and made no mistake, that was you on the ground. Then I saw that shinobi make a show of trying to take your head.” Fiercely, Madara tightened his hand in Hashirama’s own, and solemnly said, “He was not worthy to be known as the man known who ended the Kami no Shinobi. You were already dead.”

“But of course I was,” Hashirama grit out. “How else should I be? I see my life from here and it is starkly defined by my failures and crimes, and I cannot live with them. So, you say you saw all that of the battle? Then you saw me kill that child.” Madara looked away, and Hashirama felt his voice rise in his throat. “Instead of building a village to keep peace between clans, I built a war machine far deadlier than a powerful clan- and then the other nations did the same. Thus, I created the basis for this war, unparalleled in its death and destruction. And on top of it all, I killed someone I loved for this corrupt creation.” Hashirama cleared his throat, suppressing the flares wracking his airway from the lungs, and laughed. “Really, I should have listened to you. Peace between shinobi nations? What a joke. Maybe if I learned to take your lead more, I would have found the merits to the path you walk. Instead, I found myself leading the first Shinobi nation when I already knew I couldn’t be the one to do it. At least I wasn’t so stupid to recognize that much. All I can hope is for someone better than me to keep working at my dream after I die, if there’s any chance of repairing any of this.”

“Perhaps it’s not impossible.” Madara cast his dark eyes down, focusing intently on their joined hands. It took a moment for him to sigh and finally answer, “Perhaps it’s too much to ask for entire shinobi nations to get along, but would it be significant enough to create peace between two shinobi? Rivals, at that. When we were children, I said the only way for us to establish our trust was to see each other down to our guts. Now, we can both see the end of your life... and I… well, I can see your guts quite clearly.” At this, he grinned a little and cruelly poked an errant entrail back behind Hashirama’s torn flesh, prompting a pained yelp from the Senju. Laughter was present in his voice as he continued, “You’ve always been the literal type, so I’ll acknowledge it. There is nothing left for us now but to have these moments in peace.”

Madara started fiddling with his cloak and pulled out yet another storage scroll. He released a single wooden crate, then pulled out a bottle and worked it open. “Let us drink together and finally enjoy this peace we have made, for there is no use in apologies or regrets when in the company of your old war rival.”

He extended his arm to hand the bottle to Hashirama, who took it gladly. “Old war rival, huh? With that, he swiftly tipped the bottle to his mouth and had a few, large gulps. Fiery liquid tickled his throat and warmed his aching belly. “Is that how you define me after everything?”

“I could always redefine you, _teme._ ” He sat beside Hashirama, snatching the bottle back, and drank.

“Hah! That might be better. Old war rival is so… formal.”

“Well, _Hokage-sama._ How would you want me to define you?” Madara sarcastically asked.

Hashirama looked upwards, tapping his index finger on his chin. “Hmm… I don’t know… your favorite sodomite?”

Madara cackled uproariously at that. “Well, for all your grand failures from our time together in the village, you at least let me fuck you.”

There was a little sake in Hashirama’s mouth in the moment the comment was dropped upon him, which he accidentally inhaled. It took a few coughs for him to regain composure while Madara gave into bellowing laughter. Remembering his manners, Hashirama handed the bottle back to Madara who took a healthy swig. 

A couple seconds after he saw the apple in Madara’s throat start to bob, Hashirama primly returned, “Please. We both know you let me fuck you first because you were nervous.”

Madara sprayed sake so far in front of him ( _perfect timing!)_ the drops almost reached the cave’s entrance. Glaring, he made a fig with his hand at Hashirama, and as if the gesture was just the permission he needed, Hashirama took the empty sake bottle at his side and weakly threw it towards Madara (who didn’t even bother to dodge, the _insult_ ), missing him by a wide margin. Ceramic shattered in all directions and Madara started to chuckle. “Some things never change. Whether it’s throwing a bottle at me or pointing your pisser at a hole in the ground, your aim for some things in life is still terrible,” Madara somberly declared. “No wonder you have to use your mokuton to throw things.”

Hashirama slumped, his gaze falling. “Come on now, that’s not fair. You’ve seen me throw almost every ninja tool in existence by hand, I’m skilled enough.”

“I can’t say I’ve seen you use that type of jutsu too many times, I’m afraid,” Madara smugly replied.

Slumping even further and curling into himself, Hashirama lamented, “Wow… what kind of shinobi must I be anyway… to not use kunai or shuriken jutsus like everyone else… well…” and after a tiny, nasal snort, Hashirama added, “…at least I can throw stones better than you.”

Then they were both fully laughing. 

A mouthful of thick blood rose in Hashirama’s throat and spattered everywhere when he coughed, which prompted Madara to throw his head back and guffaw at an increased volume, before he reached for the bundle of bandages he had abandoned on the rock floor and unraveled them.

“Here, I know this is like putting spectacles on the blind, but so long as you keep yammering, as you always do, I better put these on. If I am sticking around, then you are dying on my terms, Senju.”

This statement made Hashirama smile. “I wouldn’t want it any other way. Could I still trouble you for another drink?”

Madara laughed at that. “Sure, Senju drunkard. Knock yourself out if you must.” He stepped back towards the crate and fished out another two bottles. One was promptly unsealed and given to an eager Hashirama. As Hashirama was preoccupied with his abnormally large sip, Madara fussed with the roll of bandages and started wrapping Hashirama around the torso as if he were embalming him. The bindings were too tight to promote healing, but then again that was beside the point. They both knew this was simply a temporary measure to assuage suffering in the face of the inevitable.

“Do you just walk around regularly carrying a large crate of sake?” laughed Hashirama. “You concern me.” He smiled as he handed the bottle back to his old rival.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I just got this because I ran out and went to restock. This crate would take you a week to finish, but for me, it’ll last a year,” Madara sniffed with an air of superiority. Hashirama reached out for the bottle, flexing his fingers, and Madara took another swig before passing it over. “And you still just quaff it from the bottle. You didn’t even ask if I have cups.”

Hashirama laughed, “Hah. You gravely underestimate me, my friend. If I put my mind to it, I can drink all this in a day. Cups simply delay the process.” He took a large gulp, letting the familiar burning sensation distract himself from the excruciating ordeal of dying.

The look of judgement was made to disguise a flash of alarm, so quickly suppressed it could almost pass as an issue of lighting. Hashirama didn’t miss it, but he didn’t comment or think about it extensively either. He felt Madara almost apprehensively take the bottle from his hand and focused his eyes upon a stone on the ground when Madara brought the drink to his lips and sipped delicately. “It’s no wonder your Mokuton doesn’t work anymore. You’re fabled to be immortal, and yet I’m shocked you made it to this age. Your idiocy should’ve taken you out long ago.” He looked intently at his bandaging work, avoiding Hashirama’s searching eyes.

“I don’t even know how old I am anymore,” Hashirama gurgled with laughter. Clearing his throat, he spat a mouthful of blood to his side, opposite that where Madara was kneeling. “Do you?”

Madara scrunched up his face in annoyance. “Are you serious? _I’m_ the one who died. I don’t exactly know how long I was out. You should know better than I.”

Hashirama felt a pang in his heart. He didn’t want to ask, but he needed to know... this was his last chance. “About that...” he gestured vertically in Madara’s direction, “does it have something to do with your eye?”

While tying a knot between two strips of fabric for the bandaging, Madara muttered, “It was a trade. A trade to change the outcome of reality.” 

“Ah. Well assuming you returned to your same body, I hope you didn’t wake up under the ground. That must have been frightening,” Hashirama mused.

Madara raised an eyebrow. “No… I woke up in what looked like a morgue, below your brother’s laboratory. I left a clone behind; I suppose you buried it instead.” That was all Madara seemed willing to offer on the subject. There was more Hashirama wanted to ask, to _say_ \- but he couldn’t string the words in his head because his many conflicting emotions kept getting tangled. 

So, he just smiled like an idiot, nearly closing his eyes in a squint, and said, “That’s good. That is exceptionally good. I’m glad.”

He kept his eyes closed as the smile started to relax on his face, hoping it wasn’t obvious he was trying to hide his tears. To Hashirama’s horror, he heard Madara settle closer; he could almost feel heat from the scrutiny. The distress made him lose one tear from his hold. Then he felt the mouth of the sake bottle sitting beneath his lips.

“Another?” Hashirama nodded, and his drinking companion held the back of his head as tipped the bottle into his mouth, some of the sake pouring down his chin and onto the mottled, broad chest. Fire almost seemed to erupt from his wounds where drops of the alcohol fell and made contact, some permeating through the cloth of the bandaging, forcing a pained hiss from Hashirama. “Oops, sorry about that. I overestimated your ability to drink.” 

After a pause, Hashirama realized the Uchiha was done wrapping his chest in a chrysalis and was only kneeling at his side to let him mentally catch up. With slow movements and gentle touches, Madara slipped Hashirama’s shirt back over his head as he focused on where the fingers brushed against his skin. When he was done, Madara turned around, took out a fourth, final sake bottle, gathered the bottle with the (as of yet, untouched) third sake jug, sealed the crate back into the scroll, and rose to his feet. “Come on,” he held out his hand for Hashirama to take. “Let’s get out of here. If I have control over how you die, it won’t be in this dark cave.” He shook his empty hand in the air. “Now if I hold you up, are you going to keel over, or are you going to help me out?”

Taking the hand with his right and holding his belly in place with his left, Hashirama rose to his feet, grimacing, and was immediately supported by Madara when he draped the uninjured arm over his strong shoulders and held Hashirama up by the waist. It took them but a moment to figure out how to balance the unequally distributed weight, and in the meantime Hashirama took another large sip from his sake bottle. They finally managed to stagger upright, and took their first trudges together, side by side.

After he finished the second bottle and tucked it into his trousers, Hashirama asked, “Where are you taking me? I hope it’s not far. Otherwise I might end up keeling over anyway.”

“Don’t worry yourself, we are just going up over these lifeless rocks. If you use some of that god-given strength you are fabled to have, it should be no sweat from your back.” Both men ducked their heads under the uneven row of stalactites at the cave’s entrance, while simultaneously stepping carefully over the jagged, cool ground and into the overbearing sunlight. It must be almost noon.

Hashirama blocked the sun from his eyes. “You could just carry me like before?” he suggested hopefully.

“Certainly, and then I’ll toss you from the first high ledge we find!”

“I suppose that’s one way you could do it!”

“What? Wait, hold on a moment-”

“Madara _please_ I’m joking,” Hashirama said, following with his trademark, booming laughter. “It’s just… _hilarious_ … to think about the fearsome Uchiha Madara, admitting he’s gotten weak over the years?”

“Oh, you wish! And aren’t you one to talk? I had to dive in and save your ass, didn’t I?” Madara’s words were starting to slur, and he poked Hashirama to emphasize the words “save your ass.” Except, Madara poked him directly on one of the lung puncture wounds on his chest. Maybe Hashirama was a little inebriated and his brain took a split second longer to process the pain response, but when it did at last, the agony to his nerves hit him like a crushing doton jutsu. Out of reflex, he punched Madara in the face, who didn’t see the fist coming. And of course, Madara was carrying the center of gravity between them, so they both toppled backward, Madara cursing loudly and Hashirama crying with equal parts anguish and mirth.

Madara glared at Hashirama, his living eye glittering balefully. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d suspect you want to get us both killed.”

“You see,” Hashirama murmured sadly, “I told you I was going to keel over before we made it. I’m never going to make it.”

“Oh, perk up, Hashirama,” Madara grumbled, hoisting them both into a sitting, then standing position. “You can perform your best tricks, you aren’t fooling me into carrying you.”

Meeting his eye, Hashirama sadly said, “I wish I had known you were alive. I can understand why you would lay low,” he added quickly. “It’s just… I would have looked if I knew.”

Madara released an amused breath through his nose, “And what would you have done if you did find me sooner?”

“In all seriousness, I expected you to hate me so much you would kill me on sight. But there would be nothing I would do to stop you.”

“Well, I didn’t think about killing you all this time, and I am not going to kill you now. So, what would you have done if you found me and realized I won’t kill you?”

Hashirama stuck his feet solidly on the ground to catch his wheezing breath, bending as far as the bandages wrapping his torso would allow, and contemplated. “I’d ask you if you’d have me tag along,” he declared, waving the sake bottle in a wide circle. “Maybe you could show me that dream you’ve been working on. Maybe you’ll let me assist in the background, since we’ve established I shouldn’t be in charge of anything ever again. I think I’d like to see how well things turn out when you’re in charge.”

“Oh? I don’t think you would...” Madara looked ahead of him, a grim smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t think our dreams or our methods have the same style.”

“That’s alright,” Hashirama insisted. “If you think you can achieve peace for our world better than I, then I think that is wonderful and I’ll believe you. I believe if anyone could do that, then it is you.”

Madara started to laugh so hard, they both had to pause their hike. “I almost want to tell you! If only just to see how fast you would regret that sentiment,” he shrieked, repositioning Hashirama’s arm on his shoulder and resuming his steps, dragging Hashirama along. 

“I mean, you could? It’s not like I’m going to tell anyone. Being dead has its conveniences.”

“I’m not going to waste our time talking about something too complex for your pea-brain to process. You’ll be dead before I’m through explaining it, and you still won’t like it. Besides, we still have to get up to the top,” he sniffed, narrowing his eyes and pointing upwards for emphasis, “so pick something else to talk about.”

“Well…” Hashirama rasped slowly, slumping his head between his and Madara’s shoulders and hiding his face, “do you really think me so stupid? Not even a little recognition from my ‘old rival?’ Remember, I led a village for nearly twenty years.”

“And just look and see how that turned out!”

Hashirama groaned. It was true. He almost wondered if things were worse now, with the village system, now that the first Great Shinobi War was taking place.

_“You are here late, Hashirama.”_

_“Well, you are here too, but I suppose you are always still here at this hour.”_

_A pause._

_“Did you wish to speak with me or ask anything of me?”_

_“Wha- oh, yes! Goodness, I almost forgot. Tobirama, I am resigning.”_

_“_ I beg your pardon _?!”_

_“I will be resigning from my position as Hokage. Of course, there will be an election so I would suggest you start thinking about running. I will endorse you, of course- “_

_“Hashirama, stop. Back to the beginning. You cannot do that.”_

_“It’s already done. I sent out messages to the administration here, as well as the daimyo. Those messages should be received within the hour.”_

_A pause. Tobirama stares at Hashirama. Tobirama grabs Hashirama by the collar but lets him go. Tobirama closes his eyes and sighs._

_“Do you have any comprehension of how irresponsible this is? Right in the middle of a war, when this village needs you most?”_

_“On the contrary, I think this is one of the more responsible choices I have made.”_

_“But_ why _? Don’t tell me this is about that in- “_

 _“_ Tobirama! _” Hashirama checks his killing intent. Hashirama sighs. Hashirama is calm. “It is a matter of my fitness to lead. I have made some regrettable decisions in the course of this war- well, even before the war began, and these mistakes are compounding in their potential damage to this village. I realized I can best protect the village as a shinobi, and not as the Hokage. So once the hat is handed over, presumably to you, then I will request a position among our forces. I don’t really care about ranks or anything, just put me on the ground so I can protect our Konoha ninja.”_

_“Ani- Hashirama… if you cannot see this for what this is, then please listen to me; this is suicide.”_

_“This is not.”_

_“Yes, it is. First of all, you are a little advanced in years, compared with the average fighter-”_

_“Tobirama, you know that doesn’t mean-”_

_“-even these days. And I know your hold on the mokuton is weakening- no, stop Hashirama. I will no longer pretend that I don’t see it, and neither should you. I can clearly see the toll it takes on you every time you use it. It takes more physical strain for you to control your chakra than ever before, and if you use any less control, then the wood looks more… wild. It belongs more to nature and less to you. And the worst of it is that I know it is much worse, but there is all that you conceal from me.” Tobirama takes a deep breath and releases it. “I understand how things between us have been trying, especially with… recent events. But no matter what you say, you are my brother and I will always protect you. I need you to allow me.”_

_“I am moved by your concern, but I assure you the mokuton is fine. I’m just aging- it’s expected for it to function differently as I get older. It doesn’t make me any less capable of protecting my fellow shinobi.” Hashirama looks out the window. “It is late. You should think about going home soon, and I will take my leave for the day. We shall discuss this more in the morning, but I hope you respect my wishes to return to the shinobi way of life.” Hashirama smiles and bows his head minutely. Tobirama bows in response. Hashirama turns around, walks out of the office and rounds the corner._

_“It’s all I’ve ever been good for, anyway.”_

“Alright, stop making that face, I didn’t mean that. It really isn’t fair to you. You never asked to be Hokage, and yet you were the only person who could keep the first shinobi settlement from crumbling. Wars are inevitable; humans strive for conflict as much as they strive to end it. So do not use this war as a measure your failures. Rather, see the establishment and survival of Konoha as testament to the achievement of your dreams.” When he didn’t feel Hashirama’s head rise from his shoulder, he leaned close, hesitated, then nudged his head under Hashirama’s to deliver a quick but deliberate kiss to his companion’s temple. “Even if you are an insufferable imbecile, this ever-changing world would have fared far worse without you to lead it. Take comfort in that at least. There’s no point in getting this depressed now. Here-” Madara shook the half-empty sake bottle enticingly within Hashirama’s line of sight. “I’m done with this. You can have the rest. Let me know when you finished and want the other bottle.”

With a chuckle, Hashirama feebly reached for the bottle. Madara had to stop and help him take a sip. “At this rate, you might end up having to carry me up the rest of the way, regardless.”

“Oh, quit it, will you? Does the Kami no Shinobi wish to be carried like a shameless bride to his death?”

“Yes, he certainly does,” Hashirama glibly replied. “At least, I would find great honor meeting my death in the arms of my lover.”

Madara sighed deeply, hesitating for a fraction of a moment with his next step. “I suppose it was nice… when we were. Things being as they are… perhaps I can now say, it will probably be the only time in my life following Izuna’s death when I was that… content.” Hashirama watched as his eyes seemed to vulcanize before him. “But then again, you were married.”

“Complexities. I specifically remember it never stopping you.”

Madara didn’t waste too much time to keep the conversation going. Of course, the terrible conversationalist he usually was, he had his charming way of-

“So, tell me- has your wife left you yet?”

\- bluntly saying exactly what the _fuck_ was on his mind with as little tact as possible.

Hashirama groaned. “I believe you are much weaker than Mito where that is concerned, my dear.”

“Oh really now? How long did she outlast me?”

“She’s at home, and by some force or other, she is probably watching us now, realizing she will soon become a widow.”

“No… still? You’re kidding.”

“I am not.”

Almost looking amused, Madara cocked his eyebrows with a strange grin. “Well… I’m impressed. You are fortunate, to have a woman of such strength in your life.”

“I am. Mito is sincerely the only reason I made it this far,” Hashirama said, choking on his own blood immediately after.

“Well, when you put it that way,” Madara muttered sourly, pausing their walk again to pat Hashirama on the back, helping him cough.

Eventually, Hashirama regained some control over his lungs. “Yes. Nobody in the village knew I was hurting after… the valley, or that I needed to heal, but she understood even better than I did. It was good to be with someone who wasn’t afraid to remember you. At the time after the valley, she was the only one left.” 

It felt strange to be talking about this; about the woman he had married and had children with and how she helped keep his dead lover’s memory alive. To be discussing it now with said (not-dead) lover under a brilliant azure sky was almost surreal. Adding to the complexity, Hashirama knew Madara didn’t mind Mito, which was honestly almost as good as saying he actually liked her. Naturally, there was resentment and tension present between both parties, but they mostly overcame those petty differences to form their own familiarity. They developed a camaraderie far stronger than what most people in a similar situation would, and it was mostly due to their _mutual_ respect; something that was troublesome when it came to finding an acquaintance in Madara. Sometimes Hashirama accidentally considers the painful possibility, that if more people in the village were like Mito, then maybe Madara would not have felt so pushed out of the village…

“There were enough people spreading rumors even after you were long gone, and even though Mito still thinks you’re an asshole, she told me more about the good times… like when you burnt all the meat that one time we ate barbeque together- remember how horrified we were when you served us our pieces and expected us to eat them?”

“I do remember your pitiful faces. It’s not my fault Senju eat like barbarians- you’d think the animal’s heart was still beating, the way you cook your meat.”

“Ha, I know! I’ll be the first to admit it’s bad. But neither way is very healthy-”

“Oh, don’t get started on how the cooking must have a balance, that everything must have a balance. It would be too soon.” With a merciless smirk, Madara added, “Otherwise, we can start out with the balance of your drinking habits.”

“Hah! I tell you; they are balanced! I just drink all the time- my body is used to it, it’s perfectly predictable, and more or less, gives balance! Ah, it was funny though. She said she appreciated the taste of burnt beef ribs more after that, but also that her jaw nearly broke trying to chew it all. Ah… well, for all her griping, she considered you more as a friend than an asshole, if that’s worth anything.”

“For what it’s worth, she’s an asshole too,” Madara brought up conversationally.

“Ha! She had more reason to think you were one- she had to clean up after your mess.”

“What mess? _You_ make messes. I do not make _messes_ , I make _phenomena_ \- “

“If the kyuubi wasn’t a mess, then it was a disaster,” Hashirama said loudly. In a smaller voice, he muttered, “I couldn’t control it for long. Mito had to seal it away.”

Madara laughed in a short huff. “Where did she seal it? I would be impressed if she made a scroll that could do that for extended periods.”

“Not a scroll. Within herself.”

Madara jerked his head at Hashirama with a stricken look. “ _What?!”_

“The kyuubi couldn’t be tamed otherwise, so she became the first jinchuriki. Other nations have their tailed beasts and are creating jinchuriki of their own.”

Madara looked away, visibly disturbed. He kept his eyes trained on the ground as it passed beneath their feet. Hashirama might dare say that he looked ashamed.

“Try not to worry about it. You didn’t know the biju could be used like that. Besides, Mito readily carries this burden in your memory.”

“Mito was one of the few good things from the village,” Madara said suddenly. “Your brats, too. I suppose your clan forcing you to marry ended up working for you in the end, right Hashirama?”

“I suppose…” Hashirama hesitated. “But sometimes… it’s painful and it’s wrong but I can’t help but to think about how things would be if I were able to choose my own path. Sometimes, I wonder if I have regrets for following the wishes of other people, and when it comes down to my marriage and family it makes me feel…twisted.”

Eyebrows furrowed, Madara reasoned, “Well, it wasn’t a question of if you had enough power to choose your own path. Even back then, as the Senju leader… if you knew the village could be created, then certainly you- choosing _this_ path- would be nothing in comparison.”

“That’s not how I see things. I dreamed the village would be created, and it happened. But you… it just wasn’t possible for me to have you as completely as I wanted. I had a chance to make it work, but I squandered it, time after time. All that does is prove I was never good enough.”

Madara watched Hashirama for a moment, neither meeting the other’s eye. Madara cleared his throat and replied, “I didn’t know you felt that way too…” Madara stopped when he felt Hashirama starting to trail behind. The walk was only becoming more demanding for Hashirama. “Listen, all the things you said for yourself, I could easily say the same for me. We both made mistakes- I’m painfully aware of mine. Although I think back to these moments and can admit some of my actions were terrible, there were always reasons behind them and I realize I wouldn’t behave any other way. I thought about you and, more or less, came to the same conclusions. I don’t regret how I acted, and I suggest you don’t waste time on it either. You got your family out of all of it, right?”

“Yes… yes, I have a beautiful family. Grandkids now too! I never would have thought I could see my family line advance so far without me becoming an old crone first, but I guess life is too short,” said Hashirama mirthfully.

“Life certainly is too short. And congratulations…” Madara trailed off. “Perhaps, it was the right decision for you to make all along. You wouldn’t have any of them if you decided things differently with me…”

Hashirama gesticulated wildly as he wondered aloud, “Who knows what would have happened? I was ambivalent about having children… I don’t even know why we’re even talking about this now! But if I were with you, and you didn’t want any, then I really wouldn’t have minded or felt like I was missing anything. And if… well, if not, we were both smart, we could’ve figured something out.”

With a groan, Madara said, “You have finally done it. You have lost too much blood, Hashirama. You better quit talking for a minute, you’re speaking nonsense. Besides, we are close- almost at the top.”

“Just curious though…” Hashirama continued anyway, “Now that we are catching up on lost time, have you ever… settled down with someone? Or did you ever have children?”

Madara snorted, “No on all accounts. I live a rather… solitary life, and I prefer it that way. Can’t start letting in fools I can’t ever trust so they can sabotage my work. And don’t get me started with brats. You know, my clan elders- just like yours- pressured me into marrying. They wanted me to pass down my power within the Uchiha, but… I fell out of favor. One good thing about all that was they eventually stopped insisting. They saw something in me they didn’t like, but that’s all well enough by my account. I will keep everything- all that they hate and all they desire, including my power, and what’s left of Izuna’s in this life. They don’t get to have us, even if it’s in the form of some washed out version of me.”

_“Hokage-sama. Thank you for receiving me.”_

_“Of course, thank you Hikaku-san. I believe you received my notice?”_

_“Yes, and I speak on behalf of the entire Uchiha clan when I thank you for bringing it back. It would be a calamity if the eyes were to be taken by anyone we would see as an enemy.”_

_“I would never abandon him, but I of course additionally understand the danger of such negligence.”_

_“Absolutely, Hokage-sama”_

_“So, I can show you where I kept him so you could-”_

_“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Hokage-sama. I should have explained more completely- the clan does not want it back. We understand how you may believe we have some sort of claim to it, but we relinquish it to your devices.”_

_“Why- what do you mean you don’t want him back? Would you not prefer to destroy his eyes yourselves? Don’t you have rituals for your dead?”_

_“We have rituals for those of the Uchiha clan. Madara was not a member, and betrayed both the Uchiha clan, as well as this village. There are no such rituals for the corpse belonging to such a person.”_

_“Look, Hikaku-san, this isn’t alright. Madara… he was your cousin, was he not? - are you not worried for him? What about Madara’s spirit? Is it fair that he may continue to suffer, perhaps indefinitely if you deny him his funeral rites?”_

_“Madara decided to forgo all of that in leaving the clan and knew full well what that meant.”_

_“Hikaku-san, please. What will it take for your clan to give him a funeral? I can remove his Rogue-nin status…posthumously of course, but it will still hold water. Please tell me, what will it take? Does the Uchiha clan want me to beg? To hell with it, I will do it. Name it, and I will make it happen.”_

_“Hokage-sama, I’m afraid the owner of that corpse committed too many crimes against our clan. The elders will not accept it back. Before this village, while the states were at war, the only ceremonies we would conduct for such criminals involved slow execution, as well as public defacement of the body. I hear the Senju have a similar ceremony for traitors…”_

_“Alright, alright._ Fine _. I see how it is. The Uchiha clan will not accept him back, even if it is to finally bring peace to a soul that has only ever been in anguish. I will take care of him. But at the very least, I implore you… because I am lost and I just don’t know what to do. Can I try to still give him a funeral pyre, or is that disrespectful? What should I do for him?”_

_“Whatever you decide to do with it will be of little concern to the clan. We all trust your judgement completely.”_

“You’re right,” Hashirama muttered, the clouds in his eyes darkening. “They never deserved you. Either of you.”

And now, they made the last steps of ascension to a wide plateau. The rock was a light color- pale gold with flecks of orange and maroon. It was warm from the blazing noon sun but was not burning to the touch. Madara guided Hashirama to a seated position, who almost instantly flopped on his back, extending his arms and legs as far as he could stretch them. He could feel his skin absorbing the warmth from the rock and the sun- a welcome feeling, as his blood seemed to run colder with the passing time. He could sense Madara crouching next to him before laying on his side, facing him while lounging. When he finally rests upon his back, Madara keeps a small gap between them.

Distantly, Hashirama could hear the sharp sounds of warfare- the clattering of every known shinobi weapon being put to use, peppered with intermittent rushes of heavy-hitting jutsus. But these sounds came from beyond the opposite side of the plateau where Hashirama and Madara both lay. On their side of the ledge, they could look down and see back into the canyon with its palette of glittering colors.

“It’s so nice up here, Madara. I love the sunlight.”

“I know you do. Tch, exactly like a plant.”

“Oh, stop being so difficult, and get over here.”

Madara grinned slyly before rolling towards Hashirama, closing the gap between them. It took a great effort for Hashirama to drape his arm around Madara’s broad shoulders, crushing him close. Holding him, feeling his warmth, his breathing, his life, Hashirama started to feel the tears in his eyes again. He was starting to sense the end of his life much more clearly… and with that, this blissful moment would also be over. These thoughts drew a ragged breath from Hashirama, the tears finally spilling over.

Hashirama feels smooth fingers gently brush the hair out of his face. A soft thumb pad sweeps across his cheekbone. “How are you feeling, Hashirama?”

“As good as I’m ever going to get…”

“It sounds like there’s more blood in your lungs now… you should cough it out.”

“Never mind that. It’s no use. It should not be long now,” answered Hashirama.

He felt Madara absentmindedly rub his back. He could almost feel the harried thinking through the palms of Madara’s hands, before he rumbled, “Earlier…when you… well, earlier, you had said that your death would have honor in my hands.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Hashirama blinked.

Meeting his eyes, Madara quietly asked, “Did you really mean that?”

“Of course I did, Madara.”

“Why? I had to watch while you were just throwing your life away.”

“I didn’t mean to do that, I just… I just missed you too much. Seeing you again was too important, and losing my life was too easy a price for it.”

“You are so foolish Hashirama. I almost wish your bastard brother could come out of thin air just to berate you for this. But you didn’t answer my question. What is it about me that could possibly give this senseless death anything good?”

“Well, what was it like for you? You once lay before me, asking for your death by my hands. Why did you then say there would be honor if I were the one to take your life?

There was a hiatus in conversation as Madara looked away, up towards the heavens, while considering his answer. “Well,” Madara spoke slowly, “you were my rival. And I was also yours. We always belonged together in that sense, even in public. On the outside, everyone around us would just see a fight every battle where we met, but for me… I was used to focusing on your every movement, or searching your eyes for your intentions, anything to try and read you better. More so, I have memorized these things in the most complete way anything could be memorized. I knew well enough you were doing the same- at least, as best as you could without the sharingan, anyway. That’s what you do in a duel. 

“Our rivalry drove a wedge between us, squashing any chance of friendship like what I had with my clanmates, but at the same time, it gave the two of us something even more intimate. We were learning more about each other faster than we were for anyone else. knew more about you than I bothered to know about anyone else I met. So when we had that battle- you know, the last between our clans, where I distinctly remember splintering your wood golem before the susanoo fizzled out from chakra exhaustion-” Hashirama punched Madara weakly in the chest at that, causing both to erupt into drunken snickers, “So after all of that, when I was looking up at you and made that request… it wasn’t because I have always trusted you and lied. It’s probably because I already knew the kind of man you are.”

Hashirama reflected on that for a moment, casting his eyes to the sky. The sun was blazing upon the earth, but two cottony, fluffy clouds passed slowly over them like great lumbering beasts. “I don’t think I will ever get to say I know exactly who you are. And I can’t say I completely trust you. I think when I was younger things were different. Maybe it’s something I lost in the Warring States, or during the village’s peacetime, or perhaps when you left… it was certainly already lost by the time you returned to destroy everything we spent over a decade building.” He felt tears prickling his eyes again, but he forced them down. This was important. One of the clouds was torn apart by the high-altitude winds, splitting it into three incongruous shapes. Hashirama sighed, turning his head, because at this angle they looked like fluffy birds. He lifted his arm to see if he could cover all three of them with the span of his hand, but even the slight movement disrupted the blood in his lungs, forcing him to cough. Madara stood from where he lay at Hashirama’s side, helping him to an upright position, clapping his back.

“You still talk too much, Hashirama,” Madara scolded him. When Hashirama’s coughing was back under control, Madara initially took a step to Hashirama’s side, assumedly to take a seat himself, before he changed his mind, walking behind Hashirama and settling down. He ended up pressed to Hashirama’s back, his legs curved on either side of Hashirama’s hips, chin hooked over the shoulder in front of him, supporting the slowly fading life-force in his grasp so they could both look out into the mesmerizing colors of the canyon just beyond the plateau’s edge.

“Oh, Madara, you have no idea. I wasn’t even finished yet,” responded Hashirama.

“Oh? Well, you better get on with it. You are getting more soused as we speak.” 

Hashirama laughed so hard he spilled some sake. “Me? Soused? Impossible. You however…”

“Oh, don’t start with me, Senju drunkard!”

“Uchiha lightweight!”

Both shrieked in laughter. “Damnit, I hope none of your friends from earlier try to follow us. Like this, we are sitting ducks. _Loud_ sitting ducks,” Madara said through residual chuckles. “Alright, you were saying something?”

“The point I’ve been trying to make is… well, what I have with you is more than simply trusting you or knowing who you are. With the certainty of all my life experience with you, I know what I feel for you is so intense, it’s as if our spirits have been woven together. Losing you… and more so, being responsible for it… I could feel you being ripped away from me as clearly as I feel physical pain. My own mind and soul were torn apart, and it broke me down. What can I say? You are special. You are the only person I have allowed to touch my soul; the only one who could ever hold my life in your hands, and that’s because it was always yours to begin with.

“And you knew this. I tried to show you… but remember you didn’t let me follow through at the time. So now… dying may be unpleasant, and I leave this world with a heavy conscience, but so long as you’re here, it isn’t so bad. I can die peacefully.”

At the end of his statement, and after a few lung-clearing coughs, Hashirama rolled his head back against Madara’s chest, trying to see his face better. Two haunting, mismatched eyes watched him, wide with wonder; Madara sat frozen, his dry lips slightly parted, until he engulfed Hashirama in an embrace (as best as he could, considering the shinobi in front of him was taller and broader than himself). 

In an effort to hug him back, Hashirama tried to raise his arms, but his arms were failing to follow his will. He felt rather than saw his vision flicker this time. Madara noticed him trying to move his arms, so he grabbed Hashirama’s hand in his own, stroking his knuckles with his thumb. When he met Hashirama’s gaze again, Madara saw his face had grown more ashen, his eyes more glazed and less focused. He skillfully hid a sob and buried his face in the crook of Hashirama’s neck.

“Alright… alright, you win. I’ll give you one last victory before you go. If it is that meaningful to you, then… I suppose I can satisfy your request. For the record, this is no victory of mine; you are already incapacitated. I’m just… you are dying, and I cannot pretend I do not care for you.”

“Then you better do it quickly. I can feel myself fading. I will be going soon.”

Madara looked into Hashirama’s face as the dying man kissed the hand held in his own. Slowly, he nodded. “How would you like to go?”

“Well first, I want to look at you, so let’s change this position a little…” Hashirama twisted back as Madara helped him to hook his legs around Madara’s hips while he sat on his lap. Madara looked up at him as he hooked his hands around his neck for balance. There was a brief moment when Hashirama lowered his forehead so it was touching Madara’s, sharing breath and space. Both men were crying, even if they didn’t seem to realize it for themselves.

Reaching behind him for his kama, Madara positioned the edge of his blade at Hashirama’s jugular. “This shouldn’t hurt, but your leaving won’t last long enough for it even if it does.”

Hashirama took the point of the blade between his index and middle finger. “No,” he said firmly, guiding the kama to his chest instead, at his heart. “Here… I want it here instead.”

“…Are you sure? I can tell you; it is not what I would choose…” Madara asked with a sad look in his eye.

With a guilty, defeated huff, Hashirama replied, “Well, I am in the fortunate position where I can choose how I die. And I want to die as you did. This is something I wanted for years… and I know now you are still alive, I’ve known already that dying in this way would never fix things… but I still want this.”

“Alright Hashirama. If that is what you want…” Madara looked at the kama resting in his hand, tightening and loosening his hold on the handle. His face loosened and he lowered the blade. “Hold on- you should see the view as this happens, not just the boring ground behind me-” Just as Hashirama started to protest, Madara had rotated the both of them so they were still facing each other, only Hashirama was now looking into the golden light pouring into and somewhat reflected in the canyon below them. 

“Madara, no, it’s alright, I just need to see you,” was the protest, but Hashirama trailed off when Madara clearly ignored him. Besides, the glowing stones in the canyon made such an ethereal sight.

It was beautiful.

“There. You can’t say I failed to give you a good death.”

“I would never say that,” Hashirama murmured. His lips were cold, and he could imagine they looked bluish at this point. “You could have lopped my head off by surprise and it would still be a good death.”

Madara laughed at that, absentmindedly brushing some of the blood away from the corners of Hashirama’s mouth. “Hashirama,” he finally said, “there’s one more thing, before you go…”

Hashirama knew what Madara was going to ask for, and although he hated how presumptuous he could sometimes be, they both leaned into each other anyway. He felt Madara’s hands cupping his face as they kissed, while Hashirama focused on clinging to the shoulders of his long-lost lover. The kiss itself certainly wasn’t the most passionate they’ve ever shared. There was no tongue, the pace remained slow, their heads kept mostly upright without much angling. But in this gesture, Hashirama felt understood. The kiss imparted a strong feeling of intimacy, of simultaneously flowing energy, of connection, as he felt Madara’s chakra gently nudge into his own weakening rays, bringing warmth to the body that was growing colder. Neither of them sobbed, but silent tears flowed freely from their faces.

As much as he was loath to end it, Hashirama gently separated his lips and cast his gaze down. “It’s time now.”

“Alright,” Madara breathed softly, a tear tumbling down his face and to the earth almost unnoticed. He first grabbed Hashirama by his hips, clinging him close and holding the back of his head with his hand, and caressing it with sweeping fingers. Hashirama could feel him turn his chest slightly out, so he could once again position the kama between them at the heart. The hand at the back of his head scratched softly, and then felt Madara apply one last kiss at the space between his jaw and his ear.

“Farewell, Hashirama,” and with that, the blade was quickly punched through Hashirama’s heart, all the way through his back. With the last scraps of strength he could muster, Hashirama clung to Madara’s shoulders with twitching hands while Madara slowly extracted the blade. He could feel the blood pouring everywhere, to the ground, on himself and Madara both. His peripheral vision was lost in grey, but he could still see the canyon bathed in light, he could still feel the arms wrapped as tightly around him as he tried to wind his own around Madara. Eventually, Hashirama lost all feeling in his arms and they dropped down at Madara’s sides, the dead weight of Hashirama’s body was still leaning solidly on Madara, who clutched him with both arms still. A few involuntary tremors continued to wrack through his dying body, while the body below him was trembling with sobs. At some point, the only thing he could register was the physical touch between them, his vision now faded to black. There were familiar thin fingers at the back of his head and neck.

Perhaps Madara thought Hashirama was dead when he finally said the words, or perhaps he realized it would be his last opportunity. But Hashirama did, in fact, hear them: “I love you. I always have, I always will.”

“Fucker. Could never say that in life, could you?” And Hashirama felt Madara shift a little, felt his hand cup his cheek, heard his voice without understanding the words, but he had already spent his last breath on a laugh. 

Hashirama was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me @ me: hey, don’t you think you’re making Madara a little sappy?  
> me back @ me: ...yes... BUT HASHI IS DYING AND THEY’RE ALONE LET HIM BE SAD
> 
> Self indulgent? Check.


	3. Epilogue

As he promised him, Madara returned Hashirama’s body to the Leaf shinobi at the tactical base described to him. Even Madara had to agree that Tobirama at least deserved to have the body of his deceased brother. And, just as he promised him, Madara had cut out the torn heart from the body. 

_It has always been yours. Take it and bury it wherever you would like._

A small portion of it, he did keep for himself. He proudly presented the tissue to Zetsu upon his return. 

You know what he did with it. 

And as for the rest? He walked through the canyon where Hashirama lived his last moments, and finally stopped at its edge, where his last battle played out. He buried the heart in the dry dirt riddled with stones, and marked the spot with the empty sake bottle they shared. The bottle was decorated with prayers of health and protection, as well as a simple message:

_There was once a living god who poured all his time and energy to a dream,_

_but saved his heart and his life for one person._

_Be at peace and return to nature._

_I will meet you on the other side one day._

A single tree was expected. And there certainly was one central tree originating from the buried heart itself, but also an entire forest sprung from the cracks of seemingly barren, rocky terrain. Nothing was supposed to grow there. The people who live in the Land of Earth know to avoid this forest, for nothing good can come from trees sprouting from rock as if bewitched. 

However, every now and again, a lone figure could be observed entering the mythical forest to make an annual pilgrimage in late autumn. The traveler is always armed with a large kusarigama as tall as a man, and a single bottle of sake. Locals will notice him entering the forest, only to emerge nearly a full day later, unscathed. He keeps returning every year, even as the few wisps of hair that could be seen escaping from under the traveler’s cloak turn from ink-black to grey, and the kusarigama becomes less of a weapon and more of a crutch. And then one year, he left the forest, went home, and never returned the next year or any of the years afterward.

It is only much later after the pilgrim stops journeying when the nearby inhabitants start to feel the forest might be safe. They venture on the outskirts of the natural realm and gather fruits and mushrooms and nuts. Migrants wander through the trees and deep paths are created. Law enforcement became emboldened enough to pursue criminals who try to escape through this forest, and they return home alive.

And so, one day, a young girl of eight years was hiking through this very wood with her friends and, on a dare, climbed upon the tallest tree in the heart of the forest. The shinobi world was supposedly at peace, but she knew how tentative peace could be. She was alive when the short-lived Fourth Shinobi War took place, after all; and besides, she seemed to display talent and a high potential for ninjutsu. So, wanting to prove to both her peers and her fearful parents she should be sent to the shinobi academy in Iwagakure, she said she would make it to the top. About two thirds of the way up close to the canopy, she suddenly stopped, distracted. Her friends hundreds of feet below her gasped from the roots, fearing she encountered something which would make her fall. But after a great effort, reinforcing herself with chakra in her arms and legs, she yanked the largest kusarigama any of them had ever seen from the branches, first letting the weapon dangle from the chain, then gave it some experimental swings, the blade singing through the air as it did for its previous master from over a lifetime ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao so i am staunchly opposed to the explanation that Madara took a bite out of Hashirama and upchucked it later for the rinnegan... mostly because i find it super repulsive but also i kinda have to question how viable the tissue is after soaking in stomach acid for however long (but mostly because it's gross). i did write this with the intention that it would be somewhat canon compliant but i don't even know dude.
> 
> i appreciate you reading this if you made it to this message. i am going through some shit in my life (who isn't?) and am trying to balance it out by doing things i know i enjoy, so here is my first thingy. i am doing this for fun but i am also chill if you have constructive criticism- part of what makes writing enjoyable for me is being able to improve upon it.
> 
> so thanks for reading this! be well!


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